Feeling So Real
by RatGrl
Summary: No summary by request of the author.


Feeling So Real

By RatGrl (ratgrl127@ameritech.net)

Archive: This story is indeed my property and may be passed along and archived as long as my name goes right along with it. Just ask first, heh. 

Category: Drama

Rating: PG-13, I guess. 

Spoilers: Family Ties. 

Disclaimer: Obviously the characters of Farscape do not belong to me and never will (awww!). They do, however, belong to the Jim Henson Company and I use them humbly for my personal entertainment within this little universe of mine. 

Author's Note: This story was heavily inspired by the songs "Everytime You Touch Me" and "Feeling So Real" by Moby. The second I heard these songs I knew I had to write a fic to them, though I never thought it would turn out like this. 

As always, thanks to Quilt Lady for beta-reading this. 

Enjoy.

I.

He felt magnificently wrong. And horribly perfect. The unwritten break between law and passion, rule and impulse. He embodied everything she couldn't have and everything she couldn't live without—a man built from the contradiction of nature and society, governed not by strict regimen and stricter discipline, but by a force she had never known existed:

Self.

Gloriously immoral. And wickedly right. 

Selfishly divine in everything he ever asked her to do. 

And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't resist the flash of his dark eyes whenever she smiled into his kiss.

II.

Their bodies melted in desperate heat, limbs entangling and eyes scathing, hands and mouths moving as one as each hot sigh simmered from the brilliant blaze. Untrained and unknown. Untamed and completely natural. The novelty of curiosity and the burning depths of the forbidden beckoned them, cried their names out into the darkness, the need primal, blinding, so completely overwhelming that it left them breathless in its wake.

And it was so, so beautiful.

Her hands, softened by his passionate moans, roamed his face. She memorized the hard lines of his jaw, traced her tongue along the tiny scars, felt the bristle of his chin against her cheek. He was there, with her, and she was touching him and he was touching her, and she wished they never had to stop. 

And for a moment she swore they never would. 

But carefully instructed instinct bit at her painfully until she had no other choice but to give in.

"What time is it?" she whispered, her hand on his chest, forcing their bodies apart. He groaned, his face unreadable, a hand rubbing his eyes in frustrated arcs. 

"Does it matter?"

She wished it didn't. And she knew he felt the same.

The soft echos of their breathing rose in the room as they stared at each other. Her hand swept over his mouth, knuckles lightly grazing the tender flesh, and he smiled sadly underneath her touch.

"When will I see you again?"

She leaned into him, promise searing in her eyes.

"I have time tomorrow."

Time. The word felt sublime on her lips. And though her mind had been trained to reject and deny such intangible things, she felt its rhythm pump as steadily as the racing beat of her heart. 

Time. There would be time tomorrow. And if tomorrow passed without incident, there would be time again the next day. And day after day their time together would spin and reel into a radiant sun, slitting the wrist of everything they had created together, stripping them of the life and the desire they had just finally discovered.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Yes," she whispered. "Tomorrow."

Forever, forever tomorrow.

III.

He stank of death. And spoke of ice. The hard lines of his face glinted sharply and jaggedly in the dim light, freezing patches of dull crimson over his raw hands. A chill of understanding clung to her and she touched his face gently.

A sensitive man in a de-sensitized world. The tragedy was savage. 

He turned to her, the space of his eyes suddenly filled with the piercing shards of broken tears. 

"I failed."

"You did your job."

He bent his head low, nodding. 

"I know."

Pulling him into her embrace, she warmed him with the fire of a thousand suns.

IV.

Majestically sinful. And barbarically hers. 

And it was so, so beautiful.

V.

"I'm pregnant."

His eyes lit in shock.

"How?"

She chuckled bitterly, avoiding his eyes, unable to endure the chorus of understanding that was surely thundering across his face. 

"You know how."

Their hands touched. Nothing else. And she was comforted. 

"We'll find a way."

"You are a dreamer, Talyn."

He smiled with the warmth of a thousand suns. 

"I know."

And they stared at each other, in each other, through each other. Memorizing each curve, each line, each imperfection. Memorizing, cataloguing, storing, saving. It was the least they could do.

"When will I see you again?" he whispered, his voice breaking softly. She brought his face close to hers.

"Tomorrow."

She didn't bother to hide the tears.

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes. The question rose painfully from his lips.

"Was it worth it?"

She breathed in deeply, feeling the air flood into her lungs. Feeling the blood hammer in her skull. Feeling the rushing beat of her heart as she pulled him into her embrace.

Feeling him touch her, feeling her touch him, feeling the tick of time and the rhythm of the universe as it moved on once again.

"Yes."

And he believed her. 


End file.
